that we are eaten, or that there is a war, or a pestilence, or famine:  neither must you credit silly reports, which I dare say you have in Notts., as usual.  I am very well, and neither more nor less happy than I usually am; except that I am very glad to be once more alone, for I was sick of my companion,—­not that he was a bad one, but because my nature leads me to solitude, and that every day adds to this disposition.  If I chose, here are many men who would wish to join me—­one wants me to go to Egypt, another to Asia, of which I have seen enough.  The greater part of Greece is already my own, so that I shall only go over my old ground, and look upon my old seas and mountains, the only acquaintances I ever found improve upon me.

“I have a tolerable suite, a Tartar, two Albanians, an interpreter, besides Fletcher; but in this country these are easily maintained.  Adair received me wonderfully well, and indeed I have no complaints against any one.  Hospitality here is necessary, for inns are not.  I have lived in the houses of Greeks, Turks, Italians, and English—­to-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cowhouse; this day with a Pacha, the next with a shepherd.  I shall continue to write briefly, but frequently, and am glad to hear from you; but you fill your letters with things from the papers, as if English papers were not found all over the world.  I have at this moment a dozen before me.  Pray take care of my books, and believe me, my dear mother,

yours,” &c.

The greater part of the two following months he appears to have occupied in making a tour of the Morea;[140] and the very distinguished reception he met with from Veley Pacha, the son of Ali, is mentioned with much pride, in more than one of his letters.

On his return from this tour to Patras, he was seized with a fit of illness, the particulars of which are mentioned in the following letter to Mr. Hodgson; and they are, in many respects, so similar to those of the last fatal malady, with which, fourteen years afterwards, he was attacked, in nearly the same spot, that, livelily as the account is written, it is difficult to read it without melancholy:—­

LETTER 48.

TO MR. HODGSON.

“Patras, Morea, October 3. 1810.

“As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, which confined me five days to bed, you won’t expect much ‘allegrezza’ in the ensuing letter.  In this place there is an indigenous distemper, which, when the wind blows from the Gulf of Corinth (as it does five months out of six), attacks great and small, and makes woful work with visiters.  Here be also two physicians, one of whom trusts to his genius (never having studied)—­the other to a campaign of eighteen months against the sick of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great effect.

“When I was seized with my disorder, I protested against both these assassins;—­but what can a helpless, feverish, toast-and-watered poor wretch do?  In spite of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, Albanians, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, and in three days vomited and glystered me to the last gasp.  In this state I made my epitaph—­take it:—­